


Seller ID: Mamabull88

by snarry_splitpea



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Internet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarry_splitpea/pseuds/snarry_splitpea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lonely and lost after running away from his father's home, Dorian finds the most unlikely mentor and confidante in an artsy, old lady with an online store.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shipping Address

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sorrowfulcheese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrowfulcheese/gifts).



Honestly, Dorian couldn't get her off of his mind.  He'd see yarn on sale while picking up paintbrushes at his local art supply shop and wonder if it was that cheap where she lived.  He'd come across kitschy, velvet paintings at the thrift store and snap photos to email to her.  He'd gargle with the strongest Listerine to get the taste of Solas out of his mouth and imagine she'd scold him for getting on his knees, again.  She'd comfort him for feeling like he needed to be there.

She'd tell him he was worth so much more.

He might believe it, coming from her.

Solas wasn't terrible.  In fact, he'd let Dorian move in with no job and very little money the previous year.  Solas had even gotten Dorian a job at his university.  It wasn't until Dorian was hired that he realized the strange man that had saved him from a lifetime on strangers' couches was a dean.  He hadn't seemed like much of a professional when they first met.  Balding and reserved, yes.  Dorian could see a man with his demeanor building an admirable career.  He couldn't, however, reconcile the image of beige, distressed denim and a threadbare tunic with the suited gentleman that handed him the keys to a spider-infested classroom the day he started working.

Solas looked nothing like Dorian's father when done with work.  The man sometimes slipped on his sneakers before leaving his office.  Dorian's father didn't seem to own casual clothes.  Dorian supposed his father wasn't much of a model to judge professionalism by.  Cold at all times.  Hateful of what his son had turned out to be.  He was no role model and his obsession with outward appearances is what drove his son from home.

Dorian shook thoughts of his father from his mind.  He was grateful for someone else to care for him.  He supposed being a self-proclaimed straight man's guilty pleasure beat being whatever he was to his family.  No matter how alone he felt.  No matter how used.  

As an art teacher, Dorian, could afford to come to work with a dead expression in his eyes.  The students were always too focused on their work and barely noticed.  He wondered how offended his father would be.  A young politician that had been on the cusp of ruling the Tevinter Imperium living in the south using one of his four degrees to teach a 100-level class.  He almost wanted to send his father a video of his quaint classroom covered in cheap, acrylic paint splatters.  He was sure if anything could make his father cry, it would be that.  

As an art teacher, Dorian could also afford to buy pointless knick-knacks on the internet

Which is what Dorian did each month after dropping most of his paycheck into a savings account.  Solas repeatedly refused to take his money.  Which was nice for building a future from the ground up, but hell for not doling out grateful blowjobs.  For someone that had once reveled in the bitter taste of a cock in orgasm, Dorian couldn't help but feel like Solas tasted of bitter obligation.  Sometimes, Dorian wondered if Solas even enjoyed them.  He was rarely the one to initiate and his words before, after, and during always seemed impersonal.  As if they'd only stepped into his bedroom to discuss the rent.  It drove Dorian mad.

Yet, he wasn't sure what he wanted from Solas.  The man was attractive in some ways, but incredibly thin despite his dedication to fitness.  His diet was mostly lean and though Dorian knew he used a few drugs recreationally for long meditation sessions, he'd never seen Solas with alcohol.  Not even in the club they met in.  Solas could have only been described his high and dusty, that night.  Dorian hadn't found him the least bit attractive, but the older man had whispered kindly to him where most men his age grappled and groped.  So, he'd listened.

On the nightclub's balcony with muffled EDM thrumming behind them, they'd looked over the cars below and talked about dreams.

"There's a lot of fucking in The Fade," Solas had said matter-of-factly where most of his dream-talk had seemed wistful.  Dorian followed his eyes to the couple leaning up against a dented, red Honda coupe.  They were mostly clothed but he could see a shiny ass pumping back and forth.  The shorter body underneath rocking and stumbling while trying to keep up.  His arousal mingled with the alcohol and he wondered if Solas would take him home for the night.

"You're out of place here, aren't you?" the older man had asked him.

Dorian was no child.

Not a highschooler slipping through the cracks with a puffed-out chest and a fake ID.  Not a community college freshman with real credentials but fake confidence.  Not even a recent graduate out in the world on shaking legs.  He pushed a hand against his growing cock in what he hoped was a discreet fashion.  He knew that at 27, he still looked very much a child to someone as old as the man next to him.

"I don't understand." he replied, honestly.

"You said Pavus, correct?" Solas asked.  Dorian cringed.  Had he rattled out his full name like some child at boarding school?  He decided to only nod and look away.

"A Tevinter accent to match your Tevinter name.  Not a short trip by any means.  Business or pleasure?" he asked.

Dorian sipped his whiskey and shrugged.

"Though I excel at both," Dorian bragged with a wink, "I consider myself a permanent expat... I guess... for now."

He'd gone from sure to homesick in the span of one sentence.

Solas nodded to himself as if silently making a decision then turned towards him.  Dorian could see his new friend was aroused and, for lack of a better word, presenting.  Solas's cool smile turned into a sweet chuckle when he caught Dorian staring.

"So, both business and pleasure?"

"As much as either is a part of everyday life."

"Are you... seeing someone?" Solas asked.  Dorian's cheeks reddened.  The evening was going in the direction he'd hoped.

"I'm living with a friend.  We're involved but not exclusive."

"You do understand why I'm asking."

"I do."

Solas sat his bottle of water on the table near them, adding it to the miscellany of cups and beer bottles that littered its surface.  Wiping the excess moisture from his hand onto his tunic, he stepped away from the balcony's railing and offered the hand to Dorian.

"Shall we go, then?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Part of Solas's sex appeal the previous year had become dead weight as time dragged on.  He was cold.  Something that made Dorian's fire seem to shine brighter.  They'd been almost like a couple in their first months together.  Partially due to the fact that Dorian had no job, he found new hobbies, most of them quite domestic.  His forays into cooking had proved pleasing to both of them and his skill in gardening had only improved his cuisine.  He'd ventured on into hunting and fishing to pass the time.  What noble families in Tevinter did just for the opportunity to show off their latest equipment and boats, Dorian found could actually be pleasurable when done alone.

Solas's panting hitched as he sprayed another load down Dorian's throat.  He'd never been too interested in fucking his young housemate.  Though they'd never discussed exactly why, Dorian had over timed gleaned from his talk of Fade dreaming that he was more of a voyeur.  Taking himself in hand or fucking a throat were mere mechanics for the esteemed scholar.  Dorian sometimes wondered if Solas would be more free with a female partner.  The thought had made him jealous, before.  He rarely wondered, now.

Now, his idle thoughts always turned to his friend.  An old woman in Orlais that created quirky decor.  He'd read about her in an art magazine.  A tiny blurb in an article about Qunari art.  Mamabull88 dot Thedsy dot Com.  He'd written down the link in a memo on his smartphone before rushing from the school's library to attend a staff meeting.

Once he had time to visit her shop, he'd been overwhelmed.  Her style was rough and minimalistic, which he expected from a Qunari artist.  What truly captivated him were the colors she used and the materials.  Qunari art was typically used to identify.  A few broad strokes to mark a location or label a container.  There were rarely depictions of people or references to landscapes.  If you wanted a graphic designer to really hit your brand right on the money, you emailed a Qunari designer.  If you wanted to maximize every inch of space in a room or a building, you flew a Qunari in.

If you wanted vivid color, depictions of Qunari homelife, and tapestries of legendary dragon battles knitted into a blanket the size of a room... Apparently, Mamabull88 was the only Qunari you could go to.

Dorian's heart swelled as he scrolled through her listings.  The prices ranged from a few dollars to a few thousand dollars.  The descriptions talked about her process of thought and actions in creating certain pieces.  No matter how small the object, she maxed out the picture limit per listing.  It was as if she wanted to allow each visitor to enjoy every detail of her work, even if they would never have the opportunity to see it in person.

She seemed so loving.

Maternal in a way Dorian had never experienced.  He'd immediately crafted this image of a petite but stout little woman with adorable horns on her forehead, grinning up at him as he watched her paint on her living room floor.

He loved art.

He made art.

He wanted to love making art as much as she did.

 


	2. Order no. 1

Thank you Dorian Pavus for your purchase,

It is with great regret that I inform you that I've misplaced the hand smelted miniature sword that this figurine was pictured with in the listing. In its place, I've included a bronze frying pan charm from a piece of jewelry my godson gave me, last Spring. The Iron Bull figure is hand needle-felted out of 100% wool roving with acrylic eyes. At 3.75 inches tall, he's the smallest figure I've ever made and definitely one of a kind (It was kind of a bitch to get his horns right at this scale. Never again!) His eyepatch is removable, but I'm sure he prefers to keep it on. Doesn't want to scare any children with his manly scar.

I won't bore you with his story, but he's as good a fighter as they come and a slayer of high dragons.

He may not look much like it holding a frying pan, though.

Trust me, he can do major damage with any decent-sized piece of metal. He's just that damn, good.

I noticed the name, Pavus, and figured you're a bit far from home if you've ever been there. I import lots of snacks from all over the globe. Seheron and Tevinter among my favorites. Please accept the attached package as a gift for choosing to buy one of my favorite pieces. He's been with me for quite some time because it's hard for me to part with little pieces of myself. Take good care of my Iron Bull, dear.

Love,  
Mamabull88


	3. Return Address

Much to Solas's chagrin, part of Dorian's additions to their wood cabin home were Mamabull88's knick-knacks. While Dorian considered them actual fine art and certain other critics would agree, Solas thought them to be religious junk.

"The Qunari are vicious in their brainwashing." he'd said one day over breakfast. Dorian had covered an entire dining room wall with a meticulously embroidered tapestry of a Dragon with her dragonlings blasting fire over a surprisingly diverse group of fighters. Mages, Elves, Rogues, Qunari, Humans, and Warriors. All together. All standing strong under the inferno. Solas liked to sneer at it.

Dorian practically groaned into his poached eggs. He loved to be told stories. Despite his inclination to boast, he loved to listen. He was not, however, fond of hearing Solas's bigoted opinions on Qunari culture for the billionth time. It always struck him that for Solas to always be so open and interested in the ways of the world, he shut completely down when it came to Circles, the Dalish, and Qunari. Dorian had learned the hard way about his opinions on the Dalish when he asked Solas if he was one. He knew to just never mention elves again. Solas claimed that in his dreams he had seen ancient elven civilization. That he identified solely with them. Dorian nodded along while plotting to flush Solas's drugs down the toilet.

The Fade existed. As did small magics and people that didn't look quite human.

Claiming to connect so deeply with something that most people could barely make out through blurs in their dreams was still unsettling.

"The Qunari are barely different from any other religious group." Dorian had defended Mamabull88. He was sure the love that flowed throughout her work was deeply rooted in how much she loved her home and her people.

"I noticed the return address on those packages is in Orlais."

"A great place to be an artist."

"A great place to be a Tal-Vashoth."

Dorian threw his napkin over his food and stood. He'd had enough for one day and Solas didn't attempt to stop him from leaving. Thank the Maker.

Once at work, Dorian found that the funky mood Solas put him in wouldn't go away.  Swatting away the single thought that he might have been a compulsive shopper, he ordered yet another pointless but gorgeous work from Mamabull88.

Opting for express shipping seemed the best idea because waiting for standard shipping from Orlais would have been agony. Dorian sighed with relief as his smartphone pinged to notify him of his confirmation email's arrival.

Dorian was only a little embarrassed to be ordering a customized Qunari chest harness.  They were popular among leather daddies and while Dorian didn't truly count himself among their number, he had a fetish ball to attend in the Winter and figured Mamabull88's leatherworking could win him a prize or two.  There was also the fact that most humans thought Qunari to be admirably pragmatic but not aesthetically pleasing.  A gorgeous Tevinter swaddled in savage dress would get more than a few gears turning in the audience.  Dorian was disgusted by the thought of pandering to bigots.  Bigots like Solas.  He knew the elven mage wasn't particularly fond of Tevinter politicians, either.  He'd figured, over time, that Solas had at least Googled him.  He knew what Dorian had been poised to be.

The Tevinter Imperium was only 60 years past a violent civil rights movement and one of the last lands in Thedas to abolish slavery.  They were seen as power hungry, greedy, rich, fools by the rest of the world.  A threat due to their ruthlessness in war.  A big enough threat to make other countries yield in most negotiations before war could be had, again.  The Qunari were the only people that still stood up to the Imperium, but of course that was more due to their proximity than their gumption.

Dorian thought about Mamabull88, again.  She couldn't possibly be Tal-Vashoth.  She harbored no ill will toward her people.  Perhaps she only lived in Orlais because a lifetime of battle had wearied her kind, old soul.

Selfish though it might be, he was glad she was outside of her homeland.  Someone he could email on a whim.  Someone he regularly got letters from.  In time, she'd begun to call him her patron.  He shrugged at the thought.  Not having his own bills to pay had left him open to spend much more on her wares than most people with his job probably would.  He realized while preparing his taxes that he'd purchased enough  to fund her entire life.  As long as she led a modest one.  He figured an artist in Orlais was partial to the local indulgences.  He didn't mind the thought of her having fun at his expense.

 Home, again, he wasn't surprised when Solas met him at the door to apologize.  Leaning in the doorway, half-dressed with drawstring sweatpants on, the older mage smiled meekly.

"You've been patient with me, Dorian.  I doubt I'm worthy of such care." he said while taking his housemate's coat.

"Amatus, You're worthy of much more.  If only I had...."

"You're everything I want.  And that word.  You always call me that."

"I've taken quite a liking to you, old man."

Solas chuckled.

"I'm sure you know I like the attention."

Cold.

Dorian ignored it.  It was a pain he was used to.  To proclaim his love and be gently coaxed away from it.  He loved Solas.  He was sure he'd never felt love before Solas.  There had been boyfriends.  Secret affairs with schoolmates, then interns, and finally older colleagues.  He could never bring them home.  Too young and foolhardy.  Too likely to start a scandal.  Too married.  In the way Solas seemed to humor his needs with sex and the occasional apologetic welcome, Dorian had humored them.  He wanted sex.  Always and of course.  He just wanted companionship, too.  It was always out of reach.

With Solas there was a little bit of everything.

Only a little bit.

Dorian couldn't help but yearn for more.

Feeling bold, he slid a thick arm around Solas's thin waist, pulling the shorter man toward him.  They both knew he was physically stronger and he paused to seek permission.  Solas, perhaps out of guilt, allowed himself to be pulled into a deep kiss.  His lips tasted of the Fade.  They almost always did.  Had he let a desire demon sate herself on his usually pent-up lust?  Was it simply the atmosphere sticking to his skin from the dream?

Dorian hadn't been to the fade in ages.  He knew he dreamt, but perhaps his magic wasn't strong enough to tempt demons.

He warmed coffee with the touch of a mug.  Solas called rain with whistled tunes.  Solas was more powerful than him but far more reserved.  If Dorian's magic had been so deeply entrenched, his father would have used him to conquer the world.

Dorian frowned at himself and Solas could feel it in the kiss.

"Something wrong, Dorian?"

"You taste like acrid metal and honeysuckle," Dorian wanted the focus off himself.

"Ah... a spirit of curiousity.  She wanted a kiss in exchange for information."

"Of course, she did." Dorian grumbled, pulling away from warm bare skin and unfurling cock.

Solas never tried to calm him down when his jealousy flared.  He always stood back and eyed the Tevinter with curiousity.  Sometimes, he asked if demons ever visited his dreams after arguments.  Dorian hated the scrutiny and always left the room.

 


	4. Order no. 28

Yo Dorian,

You wouldn't believe how pleased I am to be sending you an order so close to your birthday! I've included your custom harness, but I wanted to gift you with matching breeches and accessories. Because I don't know your exact size, everything's pretty adjustable. You don't have to wear them all at once, but I figured you might want them for the upcoming ball.

Yes, I know about the ball. I hope you don't think I've been snooping. Given your address and the time of year, I kind of automatically put two and two together. I used to visit that area, often. Best dragon conservation parks in the world.  Honestly, the balls were a bit of a draw.  I never saw the need to dress up, being what I am and all.  I just loved seeing so many beautiful boys in one spot.

I'm sure you can relate.

Not to make any assumptions there, either.  Correct me if I'm wrong, of course.

You said in your last email that I never really told you about my life despite always asking about yours.  I meant nothing by it.  I just figured a boy out of Tevinter with enough money to relocate to the South and spend a hefty sack of gold on art would have a more interesting life than me.  All I've really got is my work and my crew.  Mamabull's Chargers.  We take every problem head-on and there's nothing we can't do!  ...in an art studio, at least.  Everyone brings something special to the table and I'm lucky to have so many great apprentices helping me to realize all my visions.

I guess if you want something kind of personal about me and the crew...  
The pants are actually nug-leather that I've had custom spelled to stay black.  The alchemist involved is the best out of Seheron.  Thankfully, she was willing to follow me to my workshop in Orlais.  I call her "Dalish."  We're both old enough to remember the magic bans and, believe it or not, she kept her wand hidden in a paintbrush that she always tucked behind her ear.  Most people attempted to hide them in pencils, but those are thin and can never be quite long enough.  Artists have it way better, I figure.

I'm not a mage, myself.

If we were still fighting Dragons, I'd probably have to pick up an axe or greatsword.

You actually give me kind of a magey vibe.  No offense.  I think it's the brooding and the fact that you're a rich Tevinter boy.

No offense meant on either front.  I'm a Qunari, but I know a good boy when I meet one.  Or... talk to one.  I suppose you know what I mean.

Oh, and stop letting that friend you keep talking about make you feel like shit.  Meet you a nice little twink at this leather ball and make him jealous, for a change.  You're too loyal to causes that have nothing good for you to gain.

Take care,  
Mamabull88

 


	5. Tracking Number

Dorian had noticed the boy at the front of the room leaning back in his desk with legs spread and a pencil on his lips.  The student's hand fell to his crotch in a way that was equal parts innocent and suggestive.  Was it mere adjustment or an invitation?

At first, Dorian had been shocked when the Antivan minx had smiled at him with a come-hither gaze.  How had the kid even known he was gay?  Was it just a horny boy's gamble?

It dawned on Dorian that in Ferelden he seemed too preoccupied with clothing and his damn mustache.  They thought smelling like a dog is what made you a man.  He always shuddered at the thought of petting a dog too long and he'd seen many a neighbor kneel down to kiss theirs.  

Then there was the simple fact that he'd always had to work hard at keeping his sexual preferences away from his job in Tevinter.  At the university, everyone knew he lived with Solas.  Despite claiming to be straight, Solas never seemed to have much of a problem taking Dorian to staff parties and ceremonies.  Some people thought he was the dean's son, squinting their eyes at his ears for any hint of a point.

In Ferelden, Dorian could be a gay man.  A gay man with a decent job, a weird partner, and a soon to be obvious boner for a blonde Antivan boy.  

"Mr. Arainai." Dorian called, loudly, over his shoulder as he reached up to the cork strip above the whiteboard to pull down the artwork his class had just critiqued.

"Need me in your office after class, Dr. Pavus?"

Dorian nearly growled out a 'no you insolent boy' before taking a deep breath.  

"I need you to take up the handouts and put them on my desk.  Class will end early, today."

"I can bring to you office..."

"I'm leaving campus!!!"

The entire room had been murmuring until that moment.  Apparently, Dorian wasn't good at controlling his voice when nervous.  He'd yelled.

He held the canvas over his bottom half as he left the room.  Behind him, he could hear that Antivan voice, smooth as silk, asking everyone to pack up to leave.

At home, Dorian was unsurprised to find Solas passed out in the backyard.  He'd been burning herbs in a bowl on his lap.  Half of them illegal.  A couple, toxic.  Dorian sighed as he kicked the bowl off the man's lap and pulled him up into a fireman's carry.  He didn't care too much for Solas's comfort when he found him like that.  Further proof that they were pretty terrible for one another.  He wondered why he'd broken a lifetime of playboy habits to play house with someone who didn't fully love him.  Solas had found him while he was vulnerable.

Was he still vulnerable?

He sat Solas down on their bed with his back against the headboard, not thinking it a good idea to let him lie down in case he needed to vomit.  He got his usual tools.  A cloth to wipe the ash from Solas's hands and face.  A bucket in case he came to, retching.  Water.  Snacks.  Medicine.  Then, he settled next to his lover with a book to read and waited. 

As Solas came to, hours later, Dorian held a glass of water with a straw up to his lips.

"Thank you." the elf murmured weekly.

"How was the Fade, today?"

"The things I learned today conflict too heavily with accepted historical canon.  I don't even know where to start finding evidence."

Dorian sometimes wanted to believe that Solas found information with spirits in the Fade.  He was one of the world's leading historians & archaelogists because he'd never had a mission that didn't turn up a major discovery.  History books from prior to Solas beginning his career had been proven wildly inaccurate about so many things that he was known to many as the father or history, itself.  He'd be legendary in the distant future.  Solas told no one but Dorian that his finds were due to spirits in the Fade telling him what they'd witnessed or heard.  They told him where artifacts existed on Earth.  They told him who was alive that would know.  Solas had found many leads he couldn't follow.

Especially when it came to elves.

The world had been cruel to his people.  Burning down what they found.  Breaking ears off statues.  Scratching legs of cave drawings so future generations would debate over the stature of the figures represented.

Dorian nodded in response.  Solas was always vulnerable when leaving the Fade with no new knowledge.  He'd once grieved as if he'd killed himself and come back.

"There are many sacrifices to entering the Fade with so little magic, Dorian."

"Little magic!?  I've seen you summon fire from air and rain in deserts!"

"You've seen me light candles with my fingertips.  Water thirsty plants as near as my own feet.  At one time, my people could shift their entire body from one place to another with merely a thought.  We could battle using the elements, like dragons throwing fire and ice on violent whims.  We used to live for hundreds of years."

Dorian had chuckled, then.  Asking if Solas had seen a new wrinkle that morning.  They'd let the topic drop.

At the moment, Dorian wondered if the elf's vulnerability could serve him.  After all, his own situation had served Solas many times over.

"Solas, do you even find me attractive?  I don't mean 'Do you recognize perfection well enough to know that I'm the personification of such.'  I mean does my face and body turn you on?" Dorian asked.  Certain actions said a definite "yes."  Yet, the man never called him a boyfriend.  Never identified with gay people.  Never claimed to be pansexual or bi.  Early in their relationship, he'd told Dorian he was straight.  The Tevinter man couldn't find words to respond, back then.

Bleary-eyed and with parted lips, Solas couldn't give him his usual look of placid disgust when he tried to bring up what they really were to each other.  He simply stared.  Part of his attention focused too hard on making sure to take in and let go of each breath.

"Dorian, I don't understand."

"You don't claim to like men, at all.  Why me?"

"Dorian, I like you.  I like you quite a lot.  I don't know why it matters.  The elves of lo..."

"I SWEAR IF YOU TELL ME ONE MORE THING ABOUT THE FUCKING ANCIENT ELVES, I'LL LEAVE."

Solas closed his eyes and let out a deep breath.  He slid his hand over, curling his fingers around Dorian's.  The Tevinter didn't know what to make out of the unusually intimate gesture.

"I wish I could tell you why they're so important to me."

Dorian couldn't tell if Solas was changing the subject.  He felt like a dick.  How dare a human tell an elf he was tired of hearing about the times in which they prospered!?

"I... I didn't mean, -ever- I just mean when I'm trying to talk to you about us."

"It's so strange for me to love with labels.  With rules and identities."

Dorian sighed.  Solas wasn't sober enough for the conversation.  Yet, he always talked more when a little fucked up.  Dorian pressed the issue.

"It's always a cop-out when a straight guy tries to tell his gay fuckbuddy that he doesn't like labels."

"You're not my fuckbuddy."

"You're my straight..." Dorian suddenly thought about Mamabull88.  "Patron."

Solas opened his eyes.  He at least had the energy to look hurt.

"I just want to stop feeling so abnormal, Dorian."

"What?"

"This technology.  My weakness.  These clothes.  This life of clocking in and clocking out.  Strict relationships that start in unspoken rituals and end in marriage.  The concept of sexualities having such strict definitions that people think they somehow define who they are.  I can't handle it.  I want my house to be a place I fill with so much love that my partner knows.  He or She just knows.  I'm so tired of being here.  I should have woken up so much earlier.  Meeting you felt like destiny."

Dorian didn't know if he was frightened or touched.  None of it made sense, but it felt so earnest.  So much like a confession of love.  Dorian didn't know if he wanted Solas to love him.  He loved Solas.  He also knew that they way they expressed themselves wasn't enough for the other.  They fit together, but barely.  Their relationship felt precarious at best.  They both deserved more.

"Dorian, why this?  Why today?  What happened?"

 Dorian sighed.  Solas seemed able to read him like a book. From the moment they'd met, Solas had seemed intent on being around him.  He was never turned off by Dorian's boasting.  Never put off by his hidden self-loathing that reared it's ugly head at the worst of times.  He had been himself around Solas from the first minute they spoke and Solas had accepted him.  He at least knew Solas wouldn't be hurt if he was honest.

"I've had a student leering at me for weeks.  He's not the only one.  He just sticks out."

Solas opened his eyes, again.  They didn't want to stay open, but he seemed to want Dorian to know he was paying attention.

"Ugh, Solas, so many people tell me I'm beautiful.  All day.  Every day.  I can barely get to my car without someone coming over just to say something nice."

"You want me to compliment you?"

"I want you to want me.  Deeply.  Hungrily.  I want the looks he gives me to come from you."

Solas sat up.  Fully engaged.

"What looks does he give you?"

Dorian squinted his eyes at the man.  If Solas were the type to drool, he was sure he'd be doing it.  Voyeurs made Dorian feel both disgusted and aroused.  He was a show-off, after all.

"Uh... I don't know.  Just... touching himself a bit in class.  Sucking his pencil like some Antivan tart."

"Antivan?!"

"Yes, Solas... don't tell me you have something against Antivans, now, too!"

"No, no... just... Zevran Arainai, am I correct?  You call -him- a boy?"

Dorian's brow furrowed at Solas.

"He's at least twice your age, Dorian."

Dorian gaped.

"He's a veteran of The Blighted War."

"No!!!"

"Yes.  Practically a general."

"Fucking elves, I swear to fucking Andraste."

Solas openly laughed.  He didn't do it often and Dorian's heart warmed at the sound.

"How old are you, then!?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Actually, no.  Not at all.  Not ever."

"Thank you."

Dorian pulled Solas into a hug and the elf allowed himself to be cuddled.

"What is a war veteran doing in my atrociously easy art class?"

"I spoke to you about destiny, did I not?" Solas asked.  His voice muffled by Dorian's chest.

"Ah, yes.  Just now and a few times before."

"Certain people will find their way to us over time."

"Well, that's creepy and uncomfortable.  Thanks for the nightmares."

"No nightmares, necessary.  Your life is only going to get better from here on out."

"So, you're psychic now?"

"I've never been psychic.  I just know that I'm not what you're here for."

"Amatus?"

"Dorian, since we're being so honest, I must tell you something about that word."

"Yes?"

"It hurts every time you call me that."


	6. Order no. 38

Dorian, I've never seen any of the stories I've written to you pop up on the internet or an art magazine. I want you to know I'm grateful for that, my friend. Not to imply I'm famous enough or even interesting enough, but I like to keep my old life far away from my art one.  Do you know I've never done an interview in person?  As a qunari, I have to keep in mind how intimidating humans find the height and the horns.

I got the email about your upcoming trip to Val Royeaux. The museums there are like nothing you've seen in your life. You ~~Vints~~ Tevinter boys  fill your galleries with ~~stolen~~  hard won treasures from battles abroad.  Well, the fancy schmancy Orlesians wouldn't litter their halls with so-called "foreign art."  To this day, the largest museum in Val Royeaux is 100% Orlesian from the asscrack of the basement to the tip of the tallest tower.  And, honestly, it's glorious.  I know we're meeting for coffee after you land, but if that's the area you're headed to, I'll grab a room downtown and meet you there, one morning.  That's me asking permission to join you, by the way.  You always snap at me for telling you what to do.  I don't mean anything by it.  Just used to being the boss.

I wouldn't be surprised if you liked it, anyway.

I've gotta tell you, Dorian, that photo of you from the leather ball is the most welcome addition to my office.  In the months its been there, I've gotten more work done than ever before.  I can't believe you're my top client and best muse.  There are times where I don't know if I'm simply proud of my work or I'm ogling those shoulders of yours.  My godson insists that you won because you're gorgeous and not because of my hard work.  Of course, Dalish had something to say about that.  I wonder when Krem's hair will grow back.  Dalish is pretty scary! All she really knows are hexes.  Oh, and Krem is my boy's name.  I don't think I've ever told you much about him.  Human, about your age, also ~~a Vint~~  from Tevinter.  Ex-military, so probably not from the same groups you ran in.  He was, honestly, too old to be my son at all by the time we met, but it kept people from thinking I'd found a boytoy.

I know this letter is a little short compared to what we've been writing each other, lately.

I honestly don't know what to say.

I'm excited about finally getting to meet you, in person.

I'll try my damnedest to stop saying "Vint" before we get to that coffeeshop.  No promises, though.  
Trust me, Krem has tried.

Love,  
Mamabull88

P.S.  I included a little portrait in this package.  Handsome fellow, wouldn't you agree?


	7. Postage Pending

It had taken Solas several weeks to notice the painting. It was a tiny, four inch by four inch canvas work done in oil paint. He'd been talking to Dorian as the Tevinter man looked up at him from his desk chair. At home, Dorian didn't get a lot of work done, but he still liked to prop himself up in their office while reading. Pausing mid-sentence, Solas simply stared at the little portrait. He gave it the same look he'd given Dorian's tiny Iron Bull figure. Frown. Defeated brow. Slumped shoulders. Glossy eyes.

"Solas, are you alright? You look ill." Dorian couldn't help but to back his chair away. He kicked the wastebasket from underneath his desk in case Solas needed it.

"Another one of Mamabull's?" Solas whispered at the painting, seeming unsure of himself for the first time in ages.

"Ah, yes. She included it with the rug you hate."

Solas sighed with what seemed like relief.

"Do you really hate Qunari so much that you don't want to even look at Iron Bull?"

"IRON WHAT?" Solas gripped the edge of Dorian's desk. The other hand went to his chest as if he'd been punched.

Dorian sat his iPad down and stood.

"You're worrying me, Solas. Lately, you've looked pale. You've been shaking at night. I don't know how to help you and it's driving me mad." Dorian said as he pushed Solas toward his chair and sat the man down. He propped himself on the edge of the desk, checking to make sure he wasn't about to sit on his tablet.

"Is this Iron Bull character someone your favorite artist is related to?"

The figurine and portrait weren't the only images of Iron Bull in the house.  He was a tiny figure in the background of a market scene hanging over the fireplace in their den.  He was a small figure on the side of an iron bowl.  He was a horned cherub straddling the side of a hand-mirror in their guest bathroom.  Dorian assumed he was simply part of Mamabull's brand.

"Honestly..." Dorian's brow furrowed as if in deep thought. "I don't know who he is. I imagined he was just someone she made up. Why?"

"What makes you think he's not real?"

"Oh, I don't know," Dorian explained. "Whenever he's in a work, she writes these kind of epic fantasy stories about his life. Fighting dragons. Leading a band of mercenaries. Seducing chantry fathers then breaking their vows over their backsides. All romantic war tales from over 500 years ago. I doubt she has a nephew she writes sex stories about. Or even a close friend. That would be weird, wouldn't it?"

"I know nothing of Qunari habits," Solas said as he folded his arms, looking like a petulant child for a moment.

"Solas, really?"

"Okay, that's unfair. Yes, it would be weird. Even for a.." 

"Shut up, darling," Dorian cut him off.

"Do you think he's handsome?"

"The fairy story sex qunari?"

"Whom else?"

"Uh, well... yes. He seems quite the catch.  ...Where he real."

"Mamabull has a deep connection with the past, I feel.  Much deeper than I could have anticipated."

"Do you mean she also goes dancing naked in the Fade with demons or are you just referring to the well-known fact that she's a nerd for dragons?"

Solas looked up at Dorian but didn't respond. The hurt on his face had finally left and he seemed contemplative. After a moment, he slid Dorian's open laptop towards himself and rolled the chair around so he was facing the desk.  Before Dorian could ask any questions, Solas was passing the iPad to him and waving him out of the room.

Dorian didn't argue. When he wanted his privacy, it drove him crazy to have Solas hover around.  Instead of settling down elsewhere with his tablet, Dorian left it on the kitchen counter and decided to get dressed.  Even on Saturdays, hanging around in pajamas drove him mad.  

Solas hadn't been into the Fade, lately.  It wasn't the result of some sort of intervention on Dorian's part.  He'd simply come to his senses on his own.  One day, he'd come to Dorian, told him a fantastic story of a Seeker named Pentaghast that had lived in Thedas when Dragons roamed free.  He showed him slides from his most recent dig where he found her bones buried with her shield and a book that told almost everything one ever wanted to know about Seekers, some of the pages written in her own hand.  Solas, an expert in ancient languages, told Dorian about his favorite parts.  The man had seemed both ecstatic and deeply saddened by the discovery.

"I can't shake the feeling that you're two words away from tears," Dorian had observed, that day.

Solas had simply asked him if he ever felt like certain paintings were as important to him as old friends.  Dorian thought about the first time he'd seen the tapestry in their dining room and how it felt more like a memory than a piece of cloth.  He'd nodded to Solas.

"Well, let's just say that I mourn for the woman I found in that tomb," Solas whispered to the tablet he'd shown Dorian photos on.

"You've found bones, before.  Had you found her ghost in the Fade, before?"

"No.  She and I have never met in the Fade.  Seeing her there just... confirmed too many of my worst fears no matter how well you prove them wrong."

"I do what, now?"

"Nothing, Dorian.  I'm feeling a little out of it and need to rest."

Dorian nodded.  He was used to Solas being cryptic.  He even suspected the man hallucinated from time to time.  Or perhaps, disassociated.  He wasn't sure which, but Solas refused his help or the help of any others.

"Oh, and one more thing, Dorian."

"Yes, dear?"

"They're in a hidden cupboard behind the wolf-painting in the upstairs den."

"They?"

"The drugs.  All of them.  Do whatever you feel is necessary.  I'm done with them."

Dorian had sat on that information for quite some time.  He checked the contents of the cupboard from time to time to make sure they were still there, but Solas hadn't touched them at all since that day.  True to his word, the elf was completely done.

It seemed impossible how quickly the man had quit.  What remained quite realistic was Solas's health.  The long withdrawal Dorian helped nurse him through.  Thankfully, Solas was always willing to go to the hospital when his symptoms were at their worst.

Once stable, Solas didn't want to answer Dorian's questions about his mood.  He'd said, only once, that being completely disconnected from the Fade was torture for him.  He left it at that.

Instead of meditating, Solas spent a lot of his time working on retiring.  The dean to replace him was a fierce, Nevarran woman named Cassandra.  Dorian quite liked her.  She had great book recommendations and a beautiful smile that, like Solas, she rarely let anyone see.  She was older than Dorian but treated him like an equal.  Young at heart in a way Dorian imagined Mamabull88 was.

"Will you stay here once Solas is gone?" she'd asked him after a staff meeting.

"I'm travelling to Orlais, soon, to look into a job, there.  Solas actually recommended me for it."

"I knew Solas wouldn't let me keep you.  He told me you're destined for bigger and better things."

"He speaks too highly of me."

"What is this?" Cassandra feigned shock, "Is it modesty?  I don't recognize it on you, Dorian."

"Dr. Tethras, is that amusement?  I'm so accustomed to the humorless glower you usually have."

"Ha.  Ha.  Get out of my office."

Less than a week after Cassandra took her place in Solas's office, Dorian had found himself overcome with feelings of shock and love.  Solas sat him down with his lawyer and showed him his will.  Everything the old man had ever acquired would be Dorian's whenever Solas passed away.

"I... I can't take this."

"You can or the government can.  I have no living relatives.  The Fen'harel Institute in Orlais will keep the artifacts safe but what can they really do with my house and car?"

"But if I move to Orlais..."

"Come back, sell what you don't want.  Take the rest with you."

"Why me?"

"You're something I never would have let myself have, in the past.  This has been my best life, yet."

"Again with the cryptic..."

"Sign the forms, Dorian.  Please, don't make me beg you."

The lawyer had cleared his throat as if to rush Dorian.  Dorian allowed himself to be rushed.  With several flicks of the wrist, everything Solas had acquired in his life was Dorian's.  He'd never need to go crawling back to his father for money.  He probably didn't even need to work, again.  He wanted to, though.  Especially when it meant getting to continue some of the work Solas had done.  He'd get to dust off a couple of his other degrees working for a historical society, at least.

"Thank you," Dorian said as they approached Solas's car.  Once inside, he continued speaking.  "All these years and you're a great mystery to me, Amatus."

"Tevinter words of love are rarely whispered to an elf in earnest."

"I don't believe I can manage to speak to you without earnest.  Call me a romantic, I suppose." Dorain beamed at the side of Solas's face, watching as the old man shifted the car into reverse and began checking the mirrors.

"I've never known a greater gift than you.  Ma serannas. ma vhenan.  Emma lath."  Solas kept his phrasing simple while speaking slowly and clearly.  Far different from how he would have spoken to another elf.  He obviously wanted Dorian to hear exactly what he said.

"I know what that means... in case you were hoping I didn't," Dorian's cheeks reddened and he looked away from Solas.  "Thank you, my heart.  My love."

"I'm glad you know.  I meant it."

"Hell of a thing to say for the first time while we're in a car."

"Selfish, I know, but it's easiest when I'm not looking at you."

"You keep me so starved for attention that I can't even be angry.  I feel like a mabari having its first steak."

They were finally on the road, leaving the law office and unspoken worries about Solas's eventual death behind them.  Solas simply snickered at Dorian comparing himself to a dog.  Dorian smiled to himself.  Solas loved him, too.  They were terrible for each other.  Yet, they would always care for one another.  More like best friends than lovers.  A pang of fear sliced through Dorian.  He'd be alone once Solas was gone.  Alone, forever, just like Solas.

"The last time I was in the fade, I saw a spirit of redemption." Solas began as they both settled into bed the night before Dorian left for Orlais.  They hadn't even attempted to fuck in a long time.  Solas often lamented about the missed opportunity the Arainai 'boy' had been, heavily implying the he would have loved to watch them.  Dorian had developed a great sense of humor about Solas's sexuality.  To love deeply and not always show it.  To seek the opportunity to observe in almost all matters.  What had once been a weight on Dorian's heart had become endearing.  Often, Dorian's passion went into his reading and art, anyway.  He barely felt deprived.  

"Did this spirit ask for a kiss?"

"This spirit asked for much more.  He even came to me in your form."

Dorian sat up.  "Did that scare you?  Is that why you never went back?"

"Oh, no.  I knew he'd come, eventually.  He's the final horseman of my own apocalypse."

"Less poetry, more explanation, please."

"In past lives, he's always been an omen of my death."

Dorian stared at Solas in stunned silence.  The man was topless, as usual.  The moonlight streaming from behind him didn't show his flaws.  He looked as young as Dorian despite his newfound frailty.  Dorian had assumed being away from his herbs and inhalants had crippled him in a way.

"You think you've had past lives?"

"Many of us have.  Some of us remember in dreams.  We bring those images to life in our world, not knowing their significance.  Some of us shut it all out and live in the present, entirely.  I remember it all.  From the first until now.  It is a heavy weight to bear."

Dorian couldn't bring himself to argue.  He pulled Solas into his chest and held him, there.

"Tell me, Amatus.  Does he always look like me?"

Solas sighed.

"There's a gift for your artist friend in your briefcase.  Please, don't open it.  Don't let her open it in front of you.  She'll know what to do, I think."


	8. A Letter to Mamabull88

To the artist Dorian loves,

The first time I woke from death, I wandered the Earth and eventually came upon Dorian in a time of war and great pain.  The very sky was torn... and by my own deeds.

It was my deeds that brought all of us together.  A group of rebels.  Of future kings and queens.  Of warriors.  Friends.  
  
And when all my friends had set the world right, I prayed to Gods I did not believe in for the power to undo some of the hurt I had wrought.

The second time I woke, the world was different and all of you were gone.  I resigned myself to the memory of the gorgeous narcissist from Tevinter that I'd never been smart enough not to argue with.  I told stories of him to spirits in the Fade.  I fought the memory of the man he loved most.  If I were to live while he lie dead, somewhere, I wanted no thoughts but our conversations and the few times he'd leaned over me while we read, together.

I found a man that looked like Dorian while looking for evidence that any of you had existed.  He went by his name.  Sounded like him.  Laughed like him.

It baffled me.  

Had I been asleep?  Had I died?  Had any of you?

Again, we formed a group of friends.

I watched Dorian fall in love, again.  I watched Cassandra and Lelianna rule.  I watched Cullen lead the war-weary.  I watched Cole mourn the fallen.  I watched and did not engage.

The third time I woke, Dorian was beside me.  He spoke to me like an old friend and I barely knew the man he was in that time.  He cared for me at work and laid with his lover at home.  His lover sent me watercolors of the things outside I couldn't see for myself.  

I spent that lifetime surrounded by all of my old friends but trapped.  I vowed to not stand idly by in the next life should I be blessed by those mysterious Gods to have another.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth lifetimes, I spent searching for our original selves.  Were we reincarnations?  Were we the undead?  Were we impossible spirits like our dear friend, Cole?

I had so many questions and only pieces of answers.  To keep them safe from lifetime to lifetime, I, as an anonymous liason between necessary organizations, started and funded The Fen'harel Institute.

Under many guises, I thrust myself toward the answer, delving deeper and deeper into the Fade with magic that faded paler and paler with each supposed death.

I never remember dying.

I barely remember waking.

The way all of you have families and childhoods fuels my envy.  I wake, each time, and man older and more out of place than before.

I knew the herald of my death would be Dorian coming to me in life.  I'd have a few years left.  I knew the herald of my death would be Dorian coming to me in the Fade.  I'd have a few weeks left.  He is always that for me, the thing I most look forward to and dread.

This time, I decided to be Solas, again.  This time, I decided to hold Dorian close.  A man I loved in my second lifetime but denied myself.  Only to set into motion the inevitable cycle of romance between the two of you.

I can't really feel sorry for myself or spiteful towards either of you.  You're the missing half he's born looking for each time and the lives you create together are beautiful.

You're always the one that remembers the most, despite it being so little.

I took advantage of your desire to have a secret identity in this life and for that I apologize.  I'm sending him to you, perhaps slightly broken from my clumsy way of loving him.

I know that in your arms he'll be repaired.

Iron Bull, there's a painting in the biggest museum in Val Royeaux.  A piece created by an unknown qunari during his retirement after Corypheus split the sky well over 500 years ago.  It is owned by the Fen'harel institute and you'll find that all you need for access is to tell them your name.

I say you are Dorian's other half but he is only a third of you.  The other third is that painting.  The story your heart keeps longing to tell you can be found on its canvas.

Dareth shiral, old friend.


	9. Delivery Confirmation

Dorian couldn't help but fondle the small envelope Solas had marked "To the artist Dorian loves."

He knew Solas was not the jealous type and wondered if it was, perhaps, a check.  The old man had gotten quite generous in the previous weeks.  Mother Lelianna of a local chantry had been seen on the news praising Solas for his recent donations to the orphanages of Ferelden.  President Alistair Theirin  had visited the university for Solas's retirement party to thank him for party donations.  That blasted Arainai kid/geezer had come to their home to personally thank Solas for paying his way through college.  Dorian fought down his own jealousy quite hard and Solas had waved off his many questions.

The morning Dorian left, he'd nearly had a heart attack as the internationally wanted con-artist/terrorist known only as "Isabela" showed up at his door.  She'd shushed him with a flirty finger to her lips and walked into the house asking Solas if he'd packed.

Solas had said his goodbyes to Dorian as if they'd be his last and some small part of Dorian didn't want to leave his side.  Dreaded boarding the plane.  Thought that perhaps if he held the man's hand, he'd never have to part from him.

"Many gifts wait for you in Val Royeaux, emma lath," Solas had comforted him in a blur of soft kisses.  His forehead, neck, and lips anointed by the elf's soft and near silent love.

"Amatus, I don't know how I'll live if you're not here when I get back."

"Well, don't come back.  Isabela and Zevran can handle most of this."

"I don't understand." Dorain practically growled.  How would a criminal and whatever the fuck Zevran was do anything for him?

"Let me say goodbye while living, Dorian.  I want your last memory of me to be a kiss, not a funeral."

Dorian couldn't help it, then.  He'd cried like the small boy he'd been when his father rejected him.  Telling him he was unnatural.  He would shame his family.  He was useless if there would be no dates with debutantes, no lawyer wife, no heirs.

Then, he'd had no comfort.  A silent mother rocking herself in the corner.  Cuddling her knees and looking out a window.  Perfectly manicured and charming in all situations but never a warm guardian.

This time, he had Solas.  Warm arms and warm magic. Whispered elven words and soft kisses.

"I'll always love you, but I was never the end for you.  You'll live long and happy.  Don't let the memory of me spoil what waits for you, emma lath."

"You've never talked to me as much as you've talked these last few weeks." Dorian sniffled, trying to gather his wits, sensing Isabela was back in the room and not wanting to bawl outright while she was around.

"I'll do better, next time."

"You make me more confused with every promise and every explanation."

Solas pulled away telling Dorian not to miss his flight.  Outside, a horn was blowing.  The taxi.

"Dorian, will you say the word one more time.  Whisper it to me?"

Dorian cocked his head in confusion and then huffed out an amused sigh.

Drawing Solas into his arms and sniffling only slightly, he pressed his lips against the elf's earlobe and whispered a single word:

"Amatus."

Dorian turned that envelope over and over in his hands through his entire flight.  He was to meet Mamabull88 the following morning for coffee since he'd landed at night.  Instead, the envelope gnawed at his willpower and he went straight to the address he always received packages from.  Knocking, he realized the tiny cottage looked empty and if anyone lived there, the lights probably wouldn't have been turned off quite so early in the evening.  

He dropped the envelope in the tiny slit on her front door.

She wasn't supposed to open it in front of him, anyway.

The following morning, Dorian carefully combed his hair into the usual low bouffant and curled the ends of his mustache, just so.

He pulled on a grey tanktop and black, denim pants.  His shoes were dressier than the rest of the outfit called for with their polished, black leather but he offset the look with a series of leather straps that went up his arm.  Highlighting his bare shoulders was his signature look.  Some of the straps had rhinestones that glistened in the sunlight.  He wanted to look casual, but like a work of art for the dear old woman that had called him her muse.

The loneliness that settled in his gut while kissing Solas goodbye would leave him once he saw her.  He just knew it.

Entering the coffeeshop, he realized why she'd instructed him to "head to the back and up the stairs."  It was a tiny place with even tinier sections for seating.  Once upstairs there was a pile of boxes littering the back wall, a dusty bar that the shop obviously didn't use, a tiny table, and two chairs.  One chair held a qunari man with the largest horns Dorian had ever seen sticking out and up from his great, big, handsome head.

"Iron Bull!?" Dorian exclaimed, dropping the two sketchbooks he had tucked under one arm to clutch at his own chest.  His heart thumped painfully as if trying to leap out of him and his knees buckled.

The Qunari was out of his seat and holding him up, both sketchbooks in his other arm.  Dorian wasn't even sure either of them had so much as touched the floor.  The Bull was fast.

"Are you okay, Dorian?"

Dorian felt himself nearly falling, again.  The voice was the finest he'd ever heard.  Deep and smooth like polished marbles in a velvet bag.  The accent a nasty but delightful mash of Tevinter, Ferelden, Orlesian, and probably whatever they spoke in Seheron.  It was music.

The warmth of Iron Bull's arm around his waist burned into his core and he was sure it seared through his spine.  He could barely control his lower half as Iron Bull leaned over the small space and dragged the chair over to him.  Iron Bull made sure Dorian was seated  and then kneeled before him.  The Qunari smiled up at him.

"I suppose you didn't known Mamabull88 was a man... or specifically me."

"I..." Dorian found words wouldn't serve him and it was hard to breathe.

"I understand if you're a little upset.  Or maybe a lot upset.  I don't know why I never told you."

"I..."

"Krem told me I was being an idiot keeping up the ruse.  I've just never really told anyone.  I mean, people that know me definitely know me, but they don't really know I do art.  And then art people... God, I'm calling myself your friend but didn't trust you to know who I really was."

"I..."

"Dorian, I'm a fucking idiot and I hope you'll at least come to the museum with me tomorrow, no matter how mad you are."

"I'd hoped."

"Excuse me?"

"I'd hoped you were real."

"Oh, I... uh..." Iron Bull smiled from horn to horn. He laughed deep and heartily, making the loose wooden slats atop the nearby bar rattle just a tiny bit. "Well, that's the best thing you could have said and more than I ever hoped for!"

He pulled Dorian's comparatively tiny body into a tight hug and slapped the "Vint's" back.

Dorian was only limp with shock for a few small seconds before gripping Iron Bull around the neck and hugging him back.

"This feels so perfect."  Dorian whispered against his neck once he realized they'd held each other in silence for a solid two minutes.  He knew it was probably awkward but couldn't bring himself to let go.

"If only you knew how perfect, kadan"

The next morning under fluorescent lights and several floors of the greatest art ever made in Orlais, Dorian and Iron Bull stood before a painting that had to have taken half a lifetime to complete.

The previous night, the two of them had bared their souls to each other with words.  This painting seemed to do so to and for both of them with images.

 A great tapestry that, at first, looked like an endless crowd of people but upon closer inspection was a timeline of sorts.  Figures fighting, drinking, dancing, crying, talking, and living their lives together.  The same figures over and over.  The Seeker Pentaghast, Sera of the Red Jennys, Storyteller Varric, Rogue Spirit Cole, Commander Cullen, Madame de fer, and the entirety of The Inquisition that rebuilt a world in ruin.  They recognized them by their swords, their armor, their surroundings, the symbols adorning their skin.  Not a soul knew how they'd really looked.  These were faces Dorian had seen throughout his life but had never truly recognized as significant.  Among them Dorian and Iron Bull.  

The scenes converged toward the center where Iron Bull, his chargers, and Dorian rested at the center, old and content with the life they had lived.

"Solas seems suspiciously absent from all this," Iron Bull murmured, obviously more comfortable with the situation than Dorian.

Dorian, shocked to see himself but not himself over and over again in a way he'd never expected, stared up at Iron Bull.

"You... you knew Solas?"

"Apparently in a past life.  A life I think ended shortly after this painting was done."

Dorian looked to where the name and date were marked.

"This painting is practically ancient!"

Iron Bull simply nodded, his eyes scanning over the canvas, again.

"Solas was right about this in his letter to me."

"What did he say?"

"He said a lot of things, but he said this was something I'd been wanting to find my whole life."

"A painting?"

"Answers.  Stories to fill in the gaps between dreams."

"And why is it suspicious that he's missing?"

"Given the letter he wrote me, I think he probably disappeared on us.  Nearly-Ancient-Iron-Bull was probably pissed.  Plus, I think that green bullshit at the top was his fault."

"So, you believe in reincarnation, too, then?" Dorian didn't know where to begin with his questions, so he started with the first thing that leapt out of his mouth.

"You believe in a lot of things when you see something like this."

"Do you believe in destiny, then?"

"As crazy as it sounds, Dorian," Iron Bull pulled the shorter man a little closer, his confidence growing when Dorian allowed himself to be hugged.  There was a lot to take in but neither of them wanted to touch each other any less.  "I believe you're my destiny"


End file.
